


Irons In the Fire

by rockholmes



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: M/M, Multi, Octavian Is Alive AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockholmes/pseuds/rockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no use in thinking of "what if's," right? But when you're dying, you can't really do much other than think of how everything could have gone differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irons In the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first PJO fanfiction and I'm absolutely embarrassed that it's about this piece of shit. just look at Octavian. he's my trash baby son.
> 
> the Percy/Octavian is going to be built VERY slowly. hell, any friendship between them at all is going to be built slowly. I'm not sure how many chapters this will have, nor if I decide later "eh, fuck it, let's add porn somewhere" so if the rating changes some time in the future...well, that's why.

Just a few moments ago, Octavian was shot from an onager and now he's pretty sure his legs are broken, and so are his arms, probably, and most likely so is everything else.

  
It's a little hard to tell, though. His lungs won't allow him to scream anymore, and even though his skin is charred, the burning feels more like a dull throbbing than anything else. He wonders briefly if this is what "the end" truly feels like. Not that he really cares to think of that too hard anymore. Even though he's not spinning anymore, his mind certainly is. It's hot. The sun seems a bit too bright, even though he can only see it through one eye. For some reason, he can't open the other one, and he thinks that it's probably because it's either been burned to the point where he can't see through it anymore, or maybe he just scraped half of his face off from the force of the impact.

  
His eyes throb, his bones throb, his lungs throb, his head throbs. Everything in him feels like a huge heartbeat.

  
His heart's throbbing, too, but it's irregular and a whole lot slower than he's comfortable with.

  
A few meters away from him is probably where his left foot is - he's absolutely sure he doesn't have it now, at least. It probably got caught on something and was ripped off when he landed. There's the ghost of that limb there, but he can tell _it_ isn't. Some sort of sharp object, a rock or a stick, is stabbing into his right arm, deep enough to leave a gash, but it's almost impossible to move the limb, so it isn't bleeding that badly. When he slid across the sharp rocks along the stream, he clawed desperately at anything he could get his hands on, so his fingernails are bent and broken and bleeding, too. The blood feels even more like fire than the actual fire did.

  
With a bit of focus, he can tell that he, thankfully, can still see out of his other eye. It takes a bit of effort, but he opens it, and his vision is lined with red. His eye is bleeding. Maybe he cut it at some point. He thinks he must have, because the sting becomes too much and he has to close it again.

  
On that note, he wouldn't be that surprised if his lungs were literally on fire, since it certainly feels like it.

  
He could really go for some water right now. Actually, he's pretty hungry, too.

  
Even if he is yelling or groaning in pain, he wouldn't be able to tell, since the sound of running water fills his ears and his entire body, playing in the background of everything else. The beat of his heart, the beat of his wounds, and the sound of the stream all seem to create this almost soothing cacophany that almost feels like a lullaby, carrying him into a nice, somewhat calming haze that's gradually pushing him into oblivion. It's not a forceful push, though, more like a mother nudging her child on the edge of a highboard above a pool. He's scared. He supposes he should be.

  
Time slows down, or speeds up, he's not really sure, and just for a moment his eye adjusts and he can see the sky and he can almost feel everything again, but immediately tries to retreat back into his haze when his throat is about to tear from a loud shriek of agony. It works, sort of, and he's back to barely being able to feel anything again. There's blood flowing out from his leg, his left one, and both of his arms, and his head. It's surprising that he's not bleeding from more places, since he figures being shot from a trebuchet on _fire_ would pretty much kill a person on impact, but maybe his ancestors decided for once to have mercy on him.

  
Or maybe it's the opposite, since he's pretty sure he'd rather be dead right now.

  
Right. He's dying. That's what's happening right now.

  
It's hot.

  
It's hot and the cooling water behind him is only serving to give even more contrast. Even though the water is barely touching his back, he still feels as though he's sinking. It's frightening, no matter how much he wants to just die already, it's scary to actually do it, it's scary and it makes him anxious when the light that fills his vision begins to fade just slightly. It might be the clouds covering the sun, but he's barely in the state of mind to think of that, and he tries desperately to keep his eye open. So long that he can see that light, he's alive, right? He won't sink. He wants to sink, but he doesn't want to have that feeling be the last thing he experiences.

  
There's suddenly an itch in his throat, and he's about to cough, but he just doesn't even have the energy to give in to involuntary urges, so the itch turns into a burning, and a defeated groan leaves his lips. He should probably be passing out any moment now from the pain, but he apparently went into shock a little too quickly, so it's hard to feel the pain he's supposed to be. Thinking logically, he probably won't pass out from blood loss, since he's unfortunately not loosing a whole lot of blood.

  
That, at least, makes sense, since the fire charred his skin and definitely cauterized most of his wounds. Lucky him.

  
So he's just stuck there, unwilling to move his limbs and unable to even sleep, can only breathe and look up at the blinding sun. It's a little insulting, and vaguely embarrassing, and also kind of fitting. Isn't this the sort of tragic ending someone like him should have, anyways? He lost. There's no doubt about that, now. His plans and intentions seem so far away now, so unimportant, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things that he tried so hard to convince everyone he understood. He feels a little silly, now, honestly. Sure, the Greeks are probably still not worth his forgiveness, and sure, they're still probably worth being called enemies of the Romans, but that's all probably changed by now. By now, if Gaea won, he'd probably have noticed something, even with the state he's in at the moment. Since the Greeks were pretty obviously fighting against Gaea, that means they probably had at least something to do with Gaea being defeated, then.

  
At the very least, they did something right, and he guesses he can give them credit for that.

  
It would physically pain him to have to give Greeks credit for anything if he could actually spare any room for any more physical pain.

  
A part of him doesn't want rebirth. The same part doesn't want to stay in Elysium, either. It doesn't want anything. He just wants to stop. To sleep. To quit everything. He wonders if that's an option - to just stop existing. Maybe he can turn into a speck of light or something along those lines. Maybe he can ask his ancestor. He doubts Apollo wants anything to do with him, now, though. He's failed. He's failed his ancestor, failed his whole camp, failed all who he cares for and ever did care for. If he had the capacity to feel shame, he's sure he'd be basking in it. Instead, he's basking in the mocking sunlight that threatens to go dim at any second.

  
Everything about him has always been about what he thought was right for those he cared for. He never really stopped to think about what he wanted, only focused on the future and what could and could not change it, and what should and should not change it. Wants were never really a part of Octavian; his life was more filled with needs and musts. He desired because he felt he needed to desire. Who is he? He's a descendent of Apollo, he's an augur, he's a devoted member of Camp Jupiter, he's all of these things that don't really define _who_ he is, but _what_ he is. So, sure, that's _what_ he is, but _who_ is he?

  
Then, the impossible question pops up. Is this whole war really something he _wanted_ to instigate? Or was it something he felt he _needed_ to?

  
Of course he needed to. It was an expectation of him. He always knew he was expected to do what he's done.

  
Huh? Who was expecting him to do that?

  
Then again, maybe having life-altering conversations with himself as he's dying isn't such a good idea.

  
His thoughts are starting to sound like what the Greeks want him to think. And that's the absolute worst part, that he's actually starting to think like how those Greeks are thinking. And what's even worse is that he can actually kind of understand, now, how they felt about him. It actually makes sense, somehow, that the Greeks wouldn't need to be punished for something their ancestors did. Now that he thinks about it, if someone were to try to harm him for whatever negative past actions his ancestor may have committed, he would call them mad.

  
Maybe _he's_ going mad by thinking this. He's not so surprised that he can actually understand the Greeks now that he can barely think and now that he's probably lost a third of his blood. Might have something to do with a lack of oxygen to his brain, or something, that makes him actually start to sympathize with those he's supposed to hate. Oh well, though, he supposes that no matter what he thinks now, no matter who he starts to side with now, it won't have any affect on the world, since he's dying. Whatever he thinks now won't have any meaning to anyone else.

  
Because he's alone. Alone in his thinking, just as he's always been.

  
Alone, on purpose, because that's how he's tried to make himself. For a few moments, he thinks it's all his fault that he's alone, that maybe if he just didn't push people away, didn't focus so much on what he thought he needed, then maybe he'd be better, or maybe not better, but at least different. Maybe, maybe, maybe, all of these maybes are just making his headache pound even worse. There's no use in thinking of "what if's," right? But when you're dying, you can't really do much other than think of how everything could have gone differently.

  
Octavian figures it's a little too late to be reflecting on his decisions when his burnt limbs are steadily bleeding out, coloring the sharp grey rocks with a dull rust, but it doesn't matter much if it is or isn't too late. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing has to matter. He doesn't have to work so hard to try and make everything matter anymore. Dried blood and the fresh smell of water fill his senses and clash in disgusting beauty, the same disgusting beauty that he can tell his whole death is going to end up being.

  
It's almost a relief that he's actually lasted this long, that he didn't burn up completely in the fire, because at least the has a body left behind. At least he'll be found, eventually, when everyone scours the fields and find him. At least he'll be remembered, or at least he'll have a physical remnant in this world. The Greeks will find him, maybe burn him up completely to finish the job, maybe bury him and never talk about it again. There won't be a funeral for him - he can't tell why he knows that, he just does. Almost all of his people hate him, anyways. The Greeks wouldn't care about a being like him, wouldn't care about someone they hated, someone they are supposed to hate.

  
Then again, the Greeks constantly seem to surprise him.

  
They especially surprise him when they find him before he's actually dead.

  
Gods, they just can't ever do their jobs right, can they?

  
Footsteps tell him there are people - definitely demigods, definitely ones a part of the war - who are probably searching the land for any sign of overlooked life. There's some soft conversation, something that sounds like confusion, and then panic, and he can tell right then that they've noticed him. Or, maybe, they've just noticed his wounds - maybe he's just too far mangled and battered and broken to even be recognizable. There's more than one there, he can tell, and they're talking quickly, as if they can tell just how little time he has left.

  
"Gods!" comes in a splitting voice, which briefly brings him back to reality and makes the pain a little too real for him to handle. He wants to say _shut up_ , and mouths it, he thinks, but he doesn't hear or feel himself say it. "He's alive - it's Octavian, he's alive - oh, fuck, oh my Gods, he's - we need help over here!"

  
It's kind of funny hearing the di Angelo so unnerved and distressed, probably by how the near-dead boy looks. He almost finds it in himself to laugh, settling with just breathing hoarsely at a slightly more rapid pace than before. Seeing his mangled body, seeing the stream attempt to sweep him away, he can just imagine how dead he's supposed to be, how dead he looks. Sure, di Angelo is great with dealing with the dead, but how good is he at dealing with the dying? Not very, apparently, is what Octavian is getting as the black-haired boy steps cautiously forward, waiting for backup.

  
Do they really want to save him? Do they really think they can? That's a laugh.

  
There's no way. He's already dead. You can't save someone who's already dead, or you shouldn't, at least. When a shadow enters his field of vision, he instinctively moves his head away, wincing in agony at what that does to him. No, no, move away, don't get in the way of the light. So long that he can see the light, he's still alive, he's still breathing. He can tell that when the light goes away, he'll stop breathing, and he can't have that. He wants everything to stop, but it'll hurt. It'll hurt too much. Letting himself feel that kind of pain makes him panic, letting his mouth fly open in a sort of incoherent protest as other figures enter his view.

  
He might know some of them, and he might not, but he doesn't care. The vibrations of his lungs tell him that he's groaning, making some sort of sound in his suffering. The voices somehow make the music even more dissonant, filling his fear, his terror of what might happen to him, of what will. It's building as more and more people block his eye. It builds and builds, causing his muscles to twitch uncomfortably. And - no. No, no, no, no...

  
They've covered his eyes, and something like an alarm goes off in his head, and he can suddenly feel the torturous wounds piercing into him, and his entire body is shaking in a struggle he knows is futile. He kicks and flails, even though it makes him hurt even more, and he screams. It's a choking screech that he can't hold back, that combines every bit of anguish that he's felt up until now. He screams, and screams, and screams, and even when there's no more oxygen left in his body, he screams. He's never felt this out of control, never felt this sinking feeling, this feeling of not being able to do anything for himself.  
He can tell - it's the end. His voice dies down to a series of choked sobs and whines.

  
That horrifying feeling he didn't want to experience is what's happening now, and he knows it. It comes crashing down on him and he can feel his insides imploding in a feeling he previously thought was impossible for him to feel.

  
Then, it fades. Just as quickly as it starts, it ends.

* * *

  
Octavian's eyes open before he can even register that he's awake.

  
And, Gods, he's awake. That sort of haze he felt before is gone, now, and the world around him is no longer as bright as the blinding sun. Actually, it's a little dull, and he's fully aware of everything now. He's aware, and that's a bad thing.

  
Because if his shoulders could slump in their casts, they would.

  
Because this ceiling is clearly one of an infirmary, but it isn't the one he remembers from Camp Jupiter. That's probably because it isn't. That's probably because he's at Camp Half-Blood.

  
Gag.

  
There's some sort of conversation going on in another room and even though the thin walls of the cabin make it easy to hear the voices, it's still hard to make out what's actually being said. At the very least, he can make out the voices, and with a bit of effort, he listens intently to try and make out the words. They're saying something about him, probably - likely discussing why in all of Hades that they would keep him alive, or maybe they're going to come up with ways to torture him in order to get information. It wouldn't work, though, since he obviously can't predict anything anymore. He should be useless to them, so he doesn't really see why they're not just killing him. It must be out of spite, just to make him suffer more. Yes, that must be it.

  
The muffled sounds become clearer the harder he listens. "I don't get it, I mean, he was shot from an onager," that voice is, without a doubt, Percy Jackson's, and Octavian's stomach drops even lower than before. "There's no way he should be alive, or even recognizable, right? Was he even supposed to land where we found him? Like Annabeth said, considering the trajectory - "

  
"Now, hold on, Percy," that's Annabeth, of course, right on cue. "It was a little off, yes, but that can be chalked up to the wind."

  
"Impossible," apparently it's Will's turn to speak, and Octavian instinctively rolls his eye at how certain the boy sounds. "We calculated for air resistance."

  
Just then, Annabeth laughs in realization. "You calculated for it? Did you calculate for the extra weight, too? Octavian wasn't supposed to be shot, right?"

  
"I - " Will is about to respond, but stops himself. "I...oh." _Moron!_ You just let yourself get upstaged by a _Greek!_

  
After that bout of secondhand embarrassment, Octavian isn't willing to listen, and temporarily tunes out the conversation. On the bright side, at least he knows now why he landed where he did, and that it wasn't just a fluke in his calculations that the onager shot him exactly nowhere near the Greek side of the war. Still, it makes no sense that he's alive - sure, he's severely injured, but he was _shot from an onager_. People don't come back from that, no matter the issues in trajectory or wind or anything of the sort. He wasn't burned completely from the fire, he wasn't completely crushed from his landing, he wasn't mutilated beyond recovery when he was dragged along the sharp rocks of the stream.

  
It seems just a little bit too good to be true.

  
Maybe he really _is_ dead. But the pain is real enough, and so are the voices, so he's pretty sure that's impossible.

  
Not wanting to think anymore, he tries once again drowning out the feeling of confusion and misery with the voices in the other room. The conversation is getting a bit heated, so it's easier to hear now.

  
" - told you, Percy, it's not like he's a threat the way he is now," oh, now that is a _low blow_ , and from the son of Apollo, no less! He's sure he could at least be a bit of a threat the way he is now. Even if he physically can't, he's still got his voice on his side, assuming it still works. Octavian's always been a phenomenal public speaker - which, to clarify, is just a _fact._

  
But Jackson is apparently past the point of having none of this, and Poseidon's son takes on a furious tone. "'Not a threat?' You don't know that! He could seriously hurt someone just by talking to them - he could, like, verbally poison them or something - " there's a murmur from di Angelo that sounds suspiciously like "wouldn't put it past him," and Octavian can't help the smile that forms on his face, " - and if one of us has to feed him every day, that's bound to happen!"

  
There's a _very_ loud sigh from Solace, one that's obviously exaggerated. "Fine! Fine," he says while sounding defeated despite the ill-nature of his next words. "You're worried about everyone else being affected by him, yeah? So you won't fall for it!" Jackson seems to know where he's going with this, hastily trying to get out a _w-wait_ , but Solace is quick to continue. "That means you should be the one to feed him. If you care so much about someone falling for the words of a kid who's almost dead anyways, then you should protect everyone by feeding him yourself."

  
Octavian's face breaks out into a grin. Since when could Solace do _that?_ He has some new-found respect for the son of Apollo.

  
Apparently di Angelo is thinking the same thing, since he immediately bursts out into a muffled laughter. It's a shame that Solace got to the kid first, since he would have been a wonderful aid to the Romans. That's kind of late to think, though, so it doesn't really bother Octavian as much as it probably should.

  
Jackson sputters for a moment, but that comment about protecting everyone kind of effectively already made his decision for him. Leave it to Jackson to have a hero complex so strong that it would even make him spend time with one of his mortal enemies. It doesn't really make Octavian that angry, though - he hates the fish boy just as much as the kid hates him. Really, it makes their relationship pretty healthy and balanced, or at least he thinks so. It makes him wonder just what they were thinking rescuing him; then again, he was found by di Angelo, so it makes a little bit of sense. Maybe what he said actually got through to the kid, and maybe he's got some soft spot for Octavian now.

  
That would make him a whole lot happier if he could actually do anything about it.

  
As it is, all this thinking is really getting to him. He supposes that in his condition, it's better to sleep.

  
And so sleep is what he does.

* * *

 

  
So Octavian is pretty clearly the most annoying being this side of Camp Half-Blood, or probably in the whole universe, for that matter. Between how insistent Will is being about getting Octavian better and how obviously unwilling Octavian is going to be to even partially cooperate, Percy has just entered the realm of being One Hundred Percent Done with any and all of Apollo's relatives.

  
And for some reason, Percy's found that Nico was apparently right about how the more you complain about doing something around Will, the more likely you're going to be the one to do it, because he's got a tray of hot soup in his hands and is on his way to feed the ex-augur. All he can do now is hold out hope that Octavian won't be too difficult on purpose, but putting the slightest bit of hope into the descendent of Apollo of all people is probably the worst idea ever. As it is, saving him hasn't even really had any sort of negative repercussions outside of everyone being infinitely weary of whether it was a good idea or not, but Percy can just feel that it'll happen soon enough. Because anything even remotely connected to Octavian is never good news.

  
His heart is pounding, and he knows why. No matter what he went through in Tartarus, no matter how much he hates Octavian, he wasn't prepared for how the body looked. He doesn't think anyone was.

  
So, even though he generally is aware of what to expect, it still puts a strange, gross feeling in the pit of his stomach when he enters the room of the camp's infirmary and takes a look at Octavian's heavily bandaged body.

  
The guy's legs are both in casts, and - Gods - Percy almost stops moving completely when he sees that a foot's missing. Half of his face is bandaged up, but the rest of it doesn't look that great, anyways. One arm is in a cast and the other is wrapped tightly in bandages. His stomach's got visible stitches under the ripped clothing he's wearing. Right, he remembers that they haven't been able to remove his clothing, since the fire basically burned it straight onto his body, almost like a tattoo. He supposes they probably wanted to let some wounds at least heal before they create any more by peeling back the layers of fabric.

  
It's his eye that gets Percy the most.

  
He's seen that expression almost every morning since he went through Tartarus, staring, burning holes into him through the mirror. It's the expression he's seen on Annabeth's face, on Nico's face.

  
This guy's gone through hell.

  
Hopefully that means he's at least a little bit less of a threat now.

  
Feeling a little more than uncomfortable, he clears his throat, and Octavian jumps, but relaxes almost instantly to hide the fact that he's just been startled. That almost makes Percy roll his eyes, but he's afraid that if he starts doing that about Octavian, his eyes'll just keep rolling and pop straight out of his damn head. This is something he's got to do, though, no matter how much he doesn't want to. Octavian is basically his responsibility, anyways, and Will didn't hesitate to remind him of it when he started to complain about having to feed the bastard. How Nico can handle spending basically every minute with that guy is beyond Percy's comprehension.

  
But, hey, at least Will hasn't tried to kill all Greeks, so that's at least an upside in comparison to the situation that Percy's in.

  
After a few seconds, Percy finds his voice, deciding not to draw this out any longer than he has to. "I have some food for you."

  
Even when he shifts to sit at the bedside of the other young man, Percy notices that he doesn't raise his head up. Even though his eyes have been following Percy, he's been tactfully avoiding eye contact. Not once do they ever look directly into each other's faces, and honestly, Percy is kind of okay with that. He can't actually believe he's in this sort of situation. If someone were to tell him just a couple of years ago that, _hey, you're going to be spoon-feeding Octavian some soup because he's mortally injured and it's basically your fault that he's not dead,_ he'd probably laugh. Really loudly.

  
Thinking that, well, he might as well get this over with, he raises the spoon to Octavian.

  
At first, Octavian flinches away, but probably realizes that by doing that he looks like a complete child, so he settles on simply accepting the soup without a word.

  
The minutes pass awkwardly in silence.

  
Even when the food is gone, Percy stays seated, knowing that he still has some things to say before he leaves that he just hasn't taken the opportunity to say yet. All throughout the long moments that he was feeding the Roman, he had thoughts stirring in his head that he just didn't feel okay voicing. Also, at least now, Octavian might be able to respond to anything he says, even if it's with something inane and completely unproductive to getting anywhere. And, knowing the guy, it's pretty clear that those replies are all he's ever going to get, so there's really been no point in waiting, but there isn't much he can do about it now.

  
"Uh," not sure of how to bring the news up, Percy looks away and decides to put it bluntly. "You're kind of not supposed to be alive. I mean, you know, it should kind of be impossible that you are."

  
"Yeah," Octavian replies flatly in a way that sounds more like a simple acknowledgement than anything else, as if it isn't totally ridiculous and shouldn't be addressed any further; like, yep, that's definitely true, just wanted you to know that. So, how've you been? Oh, you were just shot from an onager on fire and broke almost every bone in your body? That sucks. Anyways, dinner's at eight. I'll probably have to be here again to feed it to you, since Will Solace is almost as much of a prick as you are - without the outdated ideals about Roman and Greek relations - and he'll probably make me do it again. You ever been to Tartarus? Decided to vacation there a while back, I'll tell you all about it.

  
This is a little silly. There's no way Percy can be casual with this guy.

  
Shaking his head as though Octavian is somehow missing the point entirely, Percy places the tray down on the bedside table. "You know, when I found you - "

  
"When _di Angelo_ found me, you mean."

  
That startles Percy for a moment, making him take on a genuinely confused expression. "What?" his brows furrow in irritation at the derailment of the subject. "You were lying in a stream, you know. We were searching around for any sign of Leo and I noticed someone's presence a little ahead of where we were. I convinced Nico to go check it out, and it turned out to be you. That's not the point, though!"

  
A flash of something mortifying and horrible goes across Octavian's face as he stills. Obviously he wasn't expecting that, but Percy isn't that interested in making this any more awkward than it has to be.

  
"The point is," he continues, "that you were shot from a catapult - "

  
"Onager."

  
"- whatever! _Point is,_ people don't just come back from that," the words halt in his throat as he eyes Octavian's form. "I mean...you didn't _just_ come back from it, but the point is that you...uh," he clears his throat. It doesn't matter that it's Octavian he's saying this to - it's hard to get out no matter what.

  
"Well, to put it bluntly, you should be dead."

  
When all the descendent of Apollo does is nod in agreement, Percy feels a spike of fury in his stomach. He should be doing something! Anything!

  
Actually, it's pretty surprising that Octavian isn't taking this opportunity to brag about being alive. Percy figured that he'd probably have this hammy speech prepared or something, should probably be standing up regardless of his condition and how impossible that would be and, just to make himself a little bit taller, raising his hand into the air to make himself look like a virtuous preacher. He should be smiling victoriously and spewing out some weird bullshit about how Apollo gave him a second chance to complete his mission of - Gods, Percy doesn't even know, something along the lines of being the Ultimate Douchebag and that somehow saving the Romans and also "fuck all the Greeks, they're horrible for some bad reason," probably. Except he isn't. Octavian isn't doing any of those things. He's not giving a loud declaration of even more animosity and antagonism or...anything, really.

  
He's just kind of not really doing anything.

  
Percy lurches forward, startling Octavian for the second time that day, and he leans in. "Alright, I'll just go ahead and ask. Do you know why you're not dead?"

  
Then, just like a flip going off in the Roman's head, he narrows his eye in haughty irritation, like Percy just asked the dumbest question in the entire universe, and it just makes him even angrier. There it is, that's the expression that Percy was expecting to see this whole time, but it's taken a bit too long and it just pisses him off. It would have pissed him off anyways, but it especially pisses him off now. Without replying, Octavian just shakes his head slightly, an action that would have gone unnoticed by Percy had he not been close enough to the Roman's face.

  
With that, he steps back and slips down into his seat again, closing his eyes.

  
"So...what? You just have no idea how you're alive?" It's an instinctive feeling of distrust that makes Percy furrow his brows in suspicion. That feeling is gone as soon as he opens his eyes again and looks at the other young man and sees Octavian's cringing face, one that looks peculiarly like humiliation. Of course - he's not sure why he didn't notice it before. For someone like Octavian to admit that he genuinely doesn't know something in front of Percy would be embarrassing for sure. His eye is averted as far as it can be and his brows are furrowed and he's visibly leaning away from Percy as if the son of Poseidon is a sort of poison, and his mouth is open slightly, just enough to show how his teeth are gritted uncomfortably.

  
Percy huffs, wholly unimpressed as the suspicion in his gut turns into a strange sort of pity.

  
Honestly, if he doesn't calm down and get his dumb pride in check, Octavian's just going to hurt himself even more.

  
The descendent of Apollo looks clearly like he has something to say, and when he opens his mouth, Percy prepares for the worst. "Why are you doing this?"

  
It's a surprising question to hear Octavian of all people ask, and it's said in just a little bit too vulnerable of a voice. The only thing Percy can think is that the bastard is just playing the victim, that he's trying to somehow play Percy and take advantage of his momentary pity on him. "You're seriously asking why?" staring intently ahead, Percy's anger just builds and builds as time goes on. It should be obvious, even to someone as ignorant as Octavian. "I'm doing this because you're dangerous. If I don't, someone else will have to, and you might try to manipulate them and - "

  
"And do what?" In a somewhat broken voice, he's cut off, and the words come wistfully spilling out of Octavian's mouth, as though he's talking about a silly game they once played that has absolutely no bearing on the present or future. " _You know_ I failed, _I_ _know_ I failed, that's the end of it. My story's finished. All you're doing is trying to shake a dead man back up."

  
Oh.

  
All of the anger in Percy seems to just fade away in those few words, and he's left with this sudden feeling of sympathy, something he never thought he would feel about the descendent of Apollo in a million years. Octavian genuinely wants to be dead, huh? It somehow makes sense, but it also leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Isn't that kind of sad? Feeling completely unable to do anything, like your life doesn't even matter...isn't that what Octavian is feeling now? It gives Percy a bit of hope that maybe they'll be able to save Octavian, like they'll be able to actually help him. Like he might listen.

  
Like he never got to do with Luke...

  
Octavian's eyes raise to Percy's face, and suddenly the Roman's expression twists and contorts into one of a sadistic smile. Like the flip of a switch. Percy's hopes are suddenly dashed.

  
"Then again," as Octavian begins, Percy's stomach drops. "I'm sure the camps are united, yes? What is whole can be broken, after all."

  
They're empty words, he assumes, but there's no way that Percy can know that for sure. Mouth agape, Percy shakes his head before standing and quickly making his way to the door.

  
For a moment, Octavian thinks he can hear the son of Poseidon muttering something about Apollo's relatives all being "absolutely fucking mental."


End file.
